


How Strange

by RedEyedRyu



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst tag is primarily for the first chapter tbh, Gen, Mystery, Post-Pacifist Route, Reader Is Not Frisk, Slice of Life, additional tags to be added as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 01:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5848609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEyedRyu/pseuds/RedEyedRyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the past ten years you have been plagued by strange dreams. Dreams where you find yourself a silent spectator to the life of a man whose hands are nothing but bone, who dreams of breaking a barrier, and who seems to be nowhere, yet at the same time, everywhere.</p><p>Everyone tells you that the dreams are just a coping mechanism, a way for you to deal with your loss and that they'll fade with time. After all, monsters aren't real and you've got to grow up some time. But you know there's more to these oddly vivid dreams than that--that there's some semblance of truth to your visions.</p><p>When you're 25 the barrier surrounding Mt. Ebott breaks. Maybe, just maybe, this means you'll finally be able to figure out the mystery behind what you see in the world beyond your waking life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hold Fast to Dreams

It started around the time you were 15, at about the same time you lost them. Strange dreams that you didn’t quite feel right writing off as simply that. Vague and obscure as they initially started out, they had always felt like something more; closer to a long-buried memory than any dream you had ever had. It was ridiculous, you knew, because there was simply no way they could be _memories_ , of all things. Any yet... 

You hated to admit it, but the things you saw were far too fantastical to be anything but a figment of an overactive mind. Figments of a mind too young and too buried in grief to face the harsh reality that the waking world had suddenly dropped upon your shoulders.

_“It’s just a coping mechanism,”_ you had been told countless times, _“it’s your brain’s way of helping you through this trying time. Sometimes it’s easier to hide in a fantasy world of your own creation than face the truth,”_ your mother had told you, over and over again.

Everyone dealt with loss in their own way, after all.

But you knew that wasn’t it. Knew that despite the overwhelming sense of grief eating away at your very soul, the fact that you would like nothing more than to indulge in a fantasy world where everything was okay, that everyone was right where they were supposed to be, laughing, joking, smiling and very, very much **alive** , the dream-memories weren’t a product of your mind; that they weren’t just a subconscious creation, a way for you to distance yourself from the fact your dad and baby brother were dead, gone forever and that there was nothing you could do to bring them back.

The “dreams” were far too consistent to be explained away like that. Once the “dreams” became more clear, you realized that you always found yourself viewing the world from the perspective of the same man. Doctor _̴a҉̢̢͡_̛_̵̨́͝t̢҉̀͡͝e̢͜͡r̷̡͢ , the monsters would call him (you often wondered why you never saw any humans around), a scientist focused on the completion of... something. The dreams were still too hazy for you to make out much at that point.

Each time you slept and found yourself in one of these dream-memories, it was as if you were simply stepping into the man’s body, a silent spectator to his life. Any other dreams you had were never as consistent or easy to remember--never so vivid, despite the subtle haze that always clung to the edges of your consciousness during each one.

Whenever you tried to convey this to anyone they would simply give you a sad, sorrowful expression. They, too, thought you were indulging in a fantasy to hide your grief.

No one believed your stories of monsters living underground, of a scientist whose hands were nothing but bone, gaping holes in the palms, who was always toiling away in a cluttered (it’s an _organized_ clutter, he would always retort to anyone that dared address it as such) lab.

It was so incredibly frustrating.

* * * * *

When you were 16 your mother had sent you to a shrink. She had grown tired of hearing about your “dreams”.

_“It’s been a year, _____. Why do you keep going on about this?”_

_“I know it’s hard, honey, I really do, but you need to move on.”_ she had said to you, her eyes so full of love and sorrow and so very conflicted, trying to decide the best course of action to help you through this. _“You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”_ she had told you.

She didn’t understand.

Your mother only wanted the best for you, you knew that, you really did, but the distance you could feel building between the two of you really hurt. You couldn’t deny that the loss hadn’t scarred you, hadn’t left a gaping void somewhere deep in your chest that just ached to be filled, but these “dreams” weren’t hurting you, weren’t a bad thing.

A year ago, everyone had insisted the “dreams” were something you had created to help you cope. You had vehemently denied it then and denied it now, but in the back of your mind, you had to pause. Perhaps that is exactly what the “dreams” had now become.

You had been investing so much energy into solving the mystery behind why you were having these strange dream-memories, what they meant, that you had never spent much time focusing on the pain and loss of your baby brother and dad. You were probably too scared to dwell on their deaths because if you stopped to focus on the hurt, really stopped, you knew you would be swallowed, head first, into an inky abyss.

Suddenly, you knew what would happen if you stopped pouring so much of yourself into these “dreams”.

You would shatter.

That is when you steeled yourself. As long as the “dreams” continued, you would focus on solving the mystery behind them.

You couldn’t let yourself be swallowed by that darkness.

* * * * *

You were 18 and the “dreams” were still an ever-present constant.

They weren’t as frequent as they had been in the years prior and were a bit shorter, more fragmented and jumbled, but they were still there.

__̵̵̧̀͜á̸̀̕͠_̨͠҉_̸̵̵̢͢t́͏ȩ̛͜r̛̛͢ was so focused on trying to break the barrier._

Your mom had had enough with your “dreams”. She had long passed tired and was well near the point of exasperation any time you brought them up. She loved you, you knew that without a doubt, but she couldn’t understand why you refused to grow up, told you she couldn’t deal with it anymore--couldn’t deal with your inability to face reality. She just… she needed a break.

You didn’t know exactly when the distance between the two of you formed into a rift. You didn’t have the energy to try and mend it.

_There were two smiling skeletons and _̛̀͜a͘͡҉_̶̧́͜_҉̶́͠t͠ȩ̛́r̡͜͡͏ loved them so very dearly._

When had you begun to pull yourself away from everyone? When had you first thought it best to keep everyone at arm’s length? That if you didn’t let anyone in, you couldn’t get hurt. That you wouldn’t have to worry about losing someone if there was never anyone to lose in the first place.

_The Core was nearing completion._

Your “dreams” were the only thing you could seem to count on these days, even if you never found yourself any closer to solving the mystery behind them.

* * * * *

When you were 23 you realized you couldn’t feel anything. Each day passed in an indiscernible haze and you faintly acknowledged that you were pretty much just going through the motions.

Wake up. Go to work. Come home. Go to bed.

Rinse and repeat.

The “dreams” came and went but they were weirder than you recalled them ever being. You had begun to doubt you would ever solve their mystery.

__̶̨̕͝a̵̧̨̢̛_̧̀͡͞_́҉t͞҉̕è͟r̢̛͘͢҉ was nowhere and yet, he was also everywhere._

In an attempt to pull yourself from your mental haze, to try and clear the cotton that fogged your mind, your had begun to express yourself through art. You would sketch and scrawl and paint and just _create_ to try and make yourself feel _something_ again. Even with the ever-present “dreams” you were beginning to feel that emptiness you so feared creep into your soul. 

_There was nothing but darkness as far as his eyes could see. How had things come to this?_

You didn’t talk to anyone about your “dreams” anymore; you had stopped doing that long ago. You were so tired of people looking at you like you were crazy, telling you monsters weren’t real--telling you that you really needed to grow up.

_“God, _____, you’re an adult, aren’t you?”_ they would always start with something of a sneer to their voice, _“You should really start acting like one and pull your head out of the clouds already.”_

You coated another canvas black.

No. You wouldn’t let go of your “dreams” even after all these years. They meant something, they were real, you just knew it. You weren’t going to toss them aside--probably wouldn’t be able to even if you wanted.

You still had a mystery to solve.

* * * * *

You are 25 when you hear a strange broadcast on the radio.

**“Monsters have apparently been sighted descending Mt. Ebott! It’s been reported that some kind of barrier has been broken.”**

An indescribable chill races down your spine and something in the pit of your gut flops.

If it weren’t the middle of August, you would have thought that the station you were listening to had been playing some kind of Halloween special. It was obviously way too early for that though, and it was a music station, after all, they didn’t air that kind of programming in the first place.

You swallowed hard, gaze locked on the radio in disbelief.

And you were sure in that moment, one-hundred percent, that your dreams had been real and not the product of a grief stricken teen or the signs an ill mind.

Monsters were real.

And if monsters were real, then so too was _̵̀ą̷̛́͠_͏͝_̸̢̛t̴̢̛͝͝_́҉r҉̴͟ l. You were sure of it.


	2. For if Dreams Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's still considered being nosy, Sans.

_It’s so hot. So unbearably, blisteringly, searingly **hot**._

_It’s strange, he thinks, because temperature has never been something that has ever bothered him before. Never in Snowdin; never in Hotland. So what was this burning heat? Was it even actually heat? And why did he feel like he was **melting**?_

You woke up drenched in sweat, eyes wide, breathing hitched and labored, and pitched forward, blankets and pillows tumbling all over. _What the heck was that?_ You didn’t know, weren’t sure if you even wanted to try and sort through that mess of a “dream” or the implications it carried with it. Not yet, anyway, not when your mind was still clouded over with the lingering vestiges of a restless sleep.

You ran a shaky hand along the top of your scalp, through your hair and stopping to loosely clutch at the base of your skull, settling the weight of your head into your grip. You took a few minutes to calm yourself, to let your eyes focus and allow your breathing to settle back into an even rhythm. When you felt yourself reasonably calmed, you let yourself fall back on your mattress.

You immediately shuddered, however, your face scrunching with an unpleasant expression. The sheets were wet and cold and were _definitely_ going to be washed today.

You took in a deep breath, held it for a couple seconds as you closed your eyes, then exhaled.

“Ugh… what time even is it.” you grumbled, hand lazily pawing along the disheveled sheets of your bed for your phone. A dull thunk sounded as your palm slapped across the chilled surface of the sought after device. You cracked an eye open to check the time: 5:16 AM.

You let loose an ugly, guttural groan as you dropped your arm over your eyes. It was entirely far too early to be alive.

* * * * *

Just over a month had passed since monsters had flooded from Mt. Ebott.

A part of you had wanted to immediately call up everyone who had ever doubted you and your “dreams” the very second you had that undeniable, visual, honest-to-god real, solid proof to back that initial radio broadcast. That smug, indignant part of yourself that had _known_ you were right wanted nothing more than to turn every mocking chide and sneer back onto those assholes’ faces but no. No, you wouldn’t do that; you were better than them. If only begrudgingly so.

So you had simply reveled in the news and welcomed your “dreams” with renewed vigour, weird as they may have gotten in recent years. Maybe if you were lucky enough you could acquaint yourself with some of the monsters. Maybe you could finally have someone to talk to about the strange visions, someone to help you discern what they meant and why you had them in the first place.

The thought had caused you to bite at your bottom lip, a dour expression on your face.

_Don’t get ahead of yourself, _____,_ you had quickly chided yourself, _you’ll only set yourself up for disappointment._

You sighed, shoulders sagging at the memory, the pen in your hand eliciting a hollow _tunk_ as it dropped against the bundled paper of your sketchbook. You closed the small book with the pen sandwiched between its pages and let it settle on the space beside you, resigned to finishing that sketch later.

That was something you had to keep reminding yourself of: that just because monsters were confirmed it didn’t necessarily mean you could outright say the same for _̢_̶̵̸̀͏s̡̡͏̴t҉̵́_̀҉͘r̵̡̕͡ , too. The whole monster business, the barrier at Mt. Ebott, they were just pieces to a much larger puzzle--one you didn’t even have any corner or edge pieces to.

“Blegh…” you muttered in childish disdain at the thought of being realistic rather than optimistic. Maybe some day you would be able to figure out how to just go with the flow, to let things slide from one thing to the next without putting much thought to rhyme or reason but that day was most definitely not today.

You cast a glance forward, to the wall of metal squares and glass circles set before you. Your eyes locking on to the swirling sheets of your bedding, brows knitting together in thought.

This morning’s “dream” had been incredibly unsettling, you had to concede. Weirder than any other before and definitely the most uncomfortable to date. It was as if you had felt exactly what _͢͜҉̶́a͜͠͏҉_̧̛͜-̶͢_̷̨͠͞r̴̛͞͞ had been feeling; as if you had been there yourself, present in the flesh and bone and not just a mere projection of your consciousness. A shiver racked through you from head to toe and you hugged yourself, folding inwards a bit.

You honestly didn’t want to dwell on that particular “dream” but...

Where had _̵̸̵̡-̸̷̢͡͝ś͝-̴̕_̸̡r͏̕͡ been? What was happening to him and what was he experiencing to have caused that sort of feedback? You shuddered to think what it would feel like to experience that first-hand, day in and day out. Was _̴̷̸̨͠à̸̸̧͢_̸͝-͘è҉̀͏-͜҉̢͝ in pain?

_There’s no way he couldn’t be,_ your mind bit back.

And did he always feel like his bones--his entire existence, was on fire? That something was simultaneously snapping and melting and melding and _breaking_ him to pieces in an endless loop of torturous misery?

A sudden chill ran passed you and you shivered at the unexpected gust. Someone had entered the laundromat, ushering in the cold autumn wind in their wake. You gave a silent thanks to whoever they were for providing the much needed snap back to reality and shook your head lightly to further clear your thoughts.

_Don’t let that “dream” consume you, _____._

“HELLO, HUMAN!”

You jumped at the voice, your back immediately straightening; your arms, still wrapped around yourself, clenched on instinct. You hadn’t expected anyone to talk to you, let alone someone with such a boisterous, clearly outdoor level voice. People typically didn’t go to a laundromat to socialize, after all, and the last you had looked, you had been the only other person occupying this particular establishment.

“Y-yeah?” You hated how your voice stuttered, how meek it sounded, but turned to greet your unexpected company nonetheless.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sight that met your gaze.

A tall, albeit lanky, skeleton was making his(?) way along the isles of empty washers and dryers towards you. You wanted to say he was grinning, but with the whole lack of skin and not quite sure how bone could convey expressions, you couldn’t be sure. The shirt he wore (“Bad to the Bone” it read, though “Bad” had been crossed out with “COOL” scrawled above it) barely reached the bottom of his rib cage and you silently pondered how that pair of shorts remained situated on his hips (pelvis?). His large red boots thumped against the linoleum flooring with each step forward and you shifted your gaze to meet his. A weird sense of nostalgia hit you when you glanced over the red scarf wrapped around his neck (why did you have the feeling you knew this monster? That you should recognize him?) but you pushed that to the back of your mind.

“Ah, sorry,” you tried again, loosening an arm to shoot the skeleton a hesitant wave as he stopped before the bench beside you. “Hello... Here to do some laundry?”

_Of course he’s here to do laundry, _____, why else would he come to a_ laundromat _?_ you chastised yourself. _Don’t ask stupid questions, you’re embarrassing yourself._

“THAT IS CORRECT!” he shouted (you wondered if that was his default vocal volume and mentally cringed at the thought) as he set down a small basket. You absently noticed that the majority of clothes in it appeared to be socks. “SINCE MY BROTHER IS SUCH A LAZYBONES IT IS UP TO ME TO ENSURE THAT THINGS ARE PROPERLY CLEANED! HONESTLY. WHY HAVE A DIRTY SOCK COLLECTION WHEN YOU CAN HAVE A _CLEAN_ ONE INSTEAD!” He continued, wasting no time in loading the washer to the left of the one you were using.

Huh. Well, that explained the socks. Still kind of weird though.

You laughed lightly, an unbidden grin pulling at your lips as you stood, maneuvering from the bench you had been seated on to pull your sheets from the washer, the cycle having just finished.

Loud as the skeleton was, he seemed nice enough. You found it kind of endearing how he had gone out of his way to greet you, a stranger who could have very well harbored anti-monster sentiments, nestled at the back of the building.

“aw, come on bro. did ya really have to go and air out my dirty laundry like that?”

You jolted at the sound of the voice to your right, recoiling enough to smack, hard, into the open washer door.

It took you a minute to relax your grip on the damp sheets you had unconsciously pulled to your chest in your panic. You shot a nasty glare at the new arrival before quickly stuffing the sheets back into the washer to free your hands. Great. Now your front was wet. 

Where the hell had he even come from?!

The new addition was yet another skeleton, apparently the taller one’s brother. He was shorter than him by at least a head (and you reveled in the knowledge that he was also shorter than you, if only by a few scant inches). A taut, shit-eating grin was plastered on his face and in that moment, you would have liked nothing more than to smack it right off his smug little face (although… there was something about that grin. You knew it--had seen it somewhere before, hadn’t you? But where?).

The little bastard wasn’t even attempting to hide how much he had enjoyed your skittish reaction.

_Calm yourself, _____. Take a deep breath--count to ten. It’s not nice to hit strangers… even if they deserve it._

His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his unzipped, powder blue hoodie as he let loose a deep chuckle, the hems of his black basketball shorts lightly swaying with the chortle. And were those _house slippers_?

“heh. sorry kid, didn’t mean to _rattle your bones_.” The little shit said. You faintly registered an exasperated groan from behind you but made no move to acknowledge it.

You pursed your lips and narrowed your eyes at the shorter skeleton, ready to bite back a retort. _Oh I’ll “rattle your bones”, alright, mister. ...wait a minute._

“Did you just-” you sputtered, “was that- are you- A _pun_? _Seriously_?” you hissed, nonplussed. 

“BROTHER,” shouted the severely less enraging skeleton behind you, “ APOLOGIZE TO THE HUMAN! YOU HAVE OFFENDED THEM WITH YOUR INSUFFERABLE WORDPLAY!”

You couldn’t help but let loose a less than flattering snort of a laugh, your earlier anger melting away. What a couple of _nerds_.

“Don’t worry about it, Papyrus.” you laughed, waving a dismissive hand at the flamboyant skeleton. “We both know how much of a _bonehead_ Sans can be.”

Wait.

What?

You froze, body tensing and jaw locking as you furrowed your brows in rapt confusion.

That’s not right.

How would you know something like that?

You didn’t know these monsters. Hadn’t known either of their names let alone any personality traits a second ago. Heck, you hadn’t even known they _existed_ until the tall one (Papyrus, something in back of your mind urged you to refer to him as) walked through that door.

So why did you suddenly feel as if they weren’t strangers? Why did they feel like close friends--like _family_ \--you hadn’t seen in years?

You didn’t catch the questioning look shared between the brothers. Didn’t notice how those strange pricks of light vanished from Sans’s eye sockets, smile straining.

“do we uh… do we know you?” the shorter skeleton asked, snapping you out of your reverie. That grin of his was suddenly incredibly unnerving.

“What?” you responded automatically, your heart suddenly racing a mile a minute and your stomach doing all kinds of nasty flips, flops, and twirls. You didn’t like that look he was giving you. It made you feel dirty; like he was looking right through you and into your very soul, ready to mete out some kind of judgment.

You had to get away from it. From them.

Without a second thought you scrabbled at your still wet sheets, gripping them to your chest, not even flinching as the cold, damp fabric further soaked your thin, cotton shirt. You scrambled from the machine, not even pausing to close its small, circular door.

“I’msorryI’vegottagobye.” you rushed out as you made a mad dash to the door, swinging it open and sprinting back to your apartment, not daring to look back.

What the ever loving _hell_ had that been about?

* * * * *

“WHAT A STRANGE HUMAN.” Papyrus eventually announced a few minutes later. He and Sans had watched you race down the street, presumably back to wherever it was you lived, in something of a blind panic. “I WONDER HOW THEY KNEW OUR NAMES?” He pondered, a bony hand cupping the bottom of his jaw in thought, the other resting on the crest of his pelvis. “I CAN UNDERSTAND HOW THEY WOULD RECOGNIZE SOMEONE AS AWESOME AND POPULAR AS I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, NYEHEHEH! BUT YOU, ON THE OTHER HAND…” He narrowed his eyes at his brother suspiciously. “HAVE YOU BEEN MAKING FRIENDS AND NOT TELLING ME, BROTHER?!”

Sans chuckled. “bro, you know i can’t keep secrets or lie when you can-”

“SANS!!!”

“- _see right through me_.”

“UGH!!!” Papyrus cried, tossing his arms up in exasperation. “I AM GOING TO FINISH WASHING THESE FILTHY SOCKS! PLEASE REFRAIN FROM SPOUTING ANYMORE OF YOUR RIDICULOUS JOKES!”

“heh. whatever you say, bro.” Sans replied with a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders as the taller skeleton turned to start the washer. Papyrus even made sure to close the washer door you had left open as he resumed his duties.

Sans shifted himself towards the benches, ready to settle down for a nap while his brother focused on their laundry.

What had all of that even been about, anyway?

There was definitely something off about you, that much was a given from that awkward first meeting (and Sans was one-hundred percent sure that had been the first time any of you had ever met--in this timeline or any other--because he would have had some kind of note or vague recollection if things were otherwise) but Sans couldn’t quite pin a finger bone on what, exactly, this unsettling feeling was that nagged at the back of his mind.

You had been so confused after you had so confidently spoken to Papyrus. That earnest look of disbelief and uncertainty that had instantly followed, like you couldn't believe what had come out of your mouth, had Sans quickly tossing out the idea that you were some kind of monster-obsessed stalker (or worse) but if that wasn’t the case, what was?

Sans lazily scratched at the crown of his skull. He didn’t like puzzles. They were more Papyrus’s thing, after all.

He had figured he wouldn’t have to worry about weird anomalies or any kind of temporal shenanigans now that Frisk had broken the barrier and freed monsterkind, after the kid had promised no more resets, but here he was. Reflecting over yet another new damn mystery.

The thought of it all just made him so… tired.

Eh. He could just worry about it later. Maybe sleep on it for a bit. Besides, you hadn’t seemed like a bad kid, just… really confused. It could wait, he decided, until (or even if) you two happened to stumble across each other again.

As Sans sat himself on the bench he felt his shorts catch on something. Peeking down, his gaze settled on a small, bound, black notebook. He picked it up out of curiosity and noticed a marker pen wedged a few pages in.

“THAT MUST BELONG TO THE HUMAN!” Papyrus exclaimed, having turned his attention to his brother and noticing Sans inspecting the unfamiliar book. “THAT IS WHERE THEY WERE SITTING WHEN I CAME IN. THEY MUST HAVE FORGOTTEN IT IN THEIR HASTE.”

Sans quirked a brow. A peek couldn’t hurt. It was their own fault for having left it out in the open, anyway.

He cracked the book open to the page the pen had marked.

And nearly dropped it to the floor.

There, staring back at him from the pages of the small sketchbook layered in ink, was the image of someone Sans had long considered dead and dusted.

But how? How was it possible for you to have drawn this? There was just no conceivable way you could have known about him to have drawn such an accurate representation. Especially considering how everyone (other than Sans, for some reason he had never been able to explain) that had ever been acquainted with the man had completely forgotten him, as if he had never even existed in the first place. So… so how? How could you have managed to draw such an unmistakable portrait of someone that, according to the world at large, didn't even exist--who had never existed?

It was just a fluke, right? Just some weirdly timed happenstance.

Sans flipped back a page, eager to chalk it up to the coincidence it surely was.

The hastily drawn image of a man shrouded in a cloak of black, holes in his palms, mouth cracked in a forlorn grin, alone amongst a black void greeted him.

Sans flipped back another page. Then another… and another… and another. Repeating the motion until he had run out of pages to turn.

His hands, and the sketchbook by extension, dropped to his lap, phalanges suddenly going shaky and numb.

Every. Single. Page. _Every single one_ told the same story; all focused on that same, single, unmistakable person in some kind of twisted chronicle.

Sans looked at the first page of the sketchbook that lay loosely in his grasp. 

> **In case of loss, please return to:**  
>  The Space Cadet that dropped me  
>  **Phone:** xxx-xxx-xxxx  
>  **e-mail :** xxxxxxx@xxxxx.com  
>  **As a reward:** Said Space Cadet's undying love and gratitude.  
>  And also some fries (or maybe a coffee if, for some unfathomable reason, you don’t like fries. In which case: _what is wrong with you?_ ).

So much for waiting. 

Sans pulled out his phone. 


	3. 000-0000 Unknown: Text Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have a new notification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter reads best with a thinner window due to formatting.   
>  Otherwise you're gonna have nasty lookin' spaces across the page... Sorry 'bout that.

« Messages | **Unknown** | Details  
**Text Message**  
**THU, Sep 24,** 8:43 PM

yo, cadet. i think you spaced something.

**Thu, Sep 24,** 9:27 PM 

???  
Uhm… who is this?

someone that’d really like to cash in on some free fries.

...fries? What’re you… OH. Oh my gosh.  
I was wondering where that was!  
Crap.  
Yes.  
omg please yes!  
I will treat you to like a million fries if you could get that back to me  
I’d really appreciate it!!

heh.  
well, can’t say no to a million free fries.

Yes!  
Okay!  
So.  
...hm.  
I know this is sudden, and I guess it’s getting kind of late...  
feel free to say no, but is there any chance I could get you to meet me now?  
I know a place that’s open late and serves the BEST fries EVER.  
  
No pressure though!!

ok.  
wouldn’t be any skin off my bones.

Oh man, thank you so much!  
Alright.  
So.  
There’s this small pub on the corner of 1st and 7th called Grillby’s.  
idk if you’re familiar with it or not but it’s pretty great.  
Think you could meet me there by 10?

yeah i know the place. 10's fine.

Awesome.  
Just look for the human in a striped scarf.  
I’ll be at the bar.

i’ll be sure to keep an eye socket out for ya

Pfft, okay.  
Guess I'll be seein' you in a bit!  
  
And also, seriously. Thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but it serves to give more insight into Reader's character. Next chapter most definitely won't be awkward for anyone at all. Nope. No way.
> 
> If you've got any suggestions, questions, or particular character interactions you'd like to see, feel free to toss 'em my way!


	4. Life is a Broken-winged Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans... that's just nasty.

You take a slow sip of your drink, lightly pursing your lips at the sour pucker of the cocktail as it flits over your taste buds and down your throat.

You swallow before letting out a breathy sigh and pick up your phone. With the press of a button you stare at its lock screen. _9:53 PM_ the thin, white numbers read. No new notifications.

You gently set the phone back on the bar and take another sip of your cocktail.

In hindsight, you realize you probably should have asked whoever it was that had found your sketchbook and texted you, for their name.

_Too late now_ , you think to yourself with a shrug, hands moving to fiddle with the tassels of your scarf. _They should be here soon, anyway._

Sure, you could have texted them back after your initial volley of messages, but your stubbornness and pride had instantly shot that idea down.

_Play it cool_ , your inner voice had directed you. _You don’t want to come off as any more desperate or weird than you already did._

You really hope they hadn’t looked at your drawings but resign yourself to accepting that they probably most definitely had. Curiosity was a nasty beast, after all, and they had obviously at least cracked it open to the first page. Your cheeks flush at the thought of someone looking at your drawings without your permission, at the idea of what they might have thought about what they saw, and if they were judging you. You hated how some stranger had that kind of access to such a personal piece of yourself. It felt like a violation of privacy, even though you were the one who had left something so personal out in the open.

You glance at your phone, biting at your lower lip.

_9:54 PM_

You’re not sure whether you want time to speed up or slow down. Or maybe even just stop entirely.

Sure, you were excited and relieved at the thought of being reunited with your sketchbook, but to do so required a certain level of interpersonal communication you just weren’t very comfortable with initiating anymore. Whoever it was that had found the book had seemed nice enough, even though they hadn’t actually said much, and you were grateful for that, but there’s only so much you can garner about a person via text on a screen.

It’s easier to talk over virtual platforms of communication and be yourself, sure, but it’s also easier for people to pretend to be something they’re not. To use the anonymity to their advantage--to use it to take advantage of others.

You really hope you’re not meeting up with a murderer or something.

You take another sip of your cocktail, reveling in the warmth the alcohol brings to your body, appreciating how it calms your nerves. You let out a content sigh, doing your best to push your more cynical thoughts to the back of your mind.

_Stop overthinking things, _____. They’re just dropping off your sketchbook. You’ll treat ‘em to some fries, maybe exchange some awkward small talk, and then you’ll both be out of each other’s hair for the rest of forever._

There’s a soft _clank_ of a plate being set in front of you and you startle, jolting in your seat a bit. You look up and meet the warm, comforting gaze of the fire elemental standing on the opposite side of the bar.

Grillby nods at the plate sitting before you and you avert your eyes as directed. Your mouth waters at the sight of a juicy burger and steaming fries. You adjust your scarf so as to avoid it getting in the way as you eat, before looking back to Grillby.

“Aw man, this looks _amazing_ , Grillby!” You smile up at the monster, eager to dig in. You pluck a fry from your plate and quickly shove it in your mouth, tension flying from your shoulders as you just _melt_ into the taste. Not for the first time you wonder if there’s some kind of magic blended into the food here because there’s just no way anything could ever taste this good--amazing secret seasoning or no.

You chew for a few seconds and then swallow, quickly nabbing another fry from your plate and bringing it to your lips.

“Have I ever told you that you’re the best?” You affirm to the monster before proceeding to stuff another fry into your mouth, eyes closed, savoring the flavor. God, you are so hungry and the food here is just _way. too. good._

You’re too busy stuffing your face to notice the way Grillby literally brightens at your words, the exposed edges of the flames of his body flickering heatedly. He fiddles with the edges of his glasses, clearly delighted, before leaving you to your meal as his flames settle back to normal.

A couple minutes pass as you stuff your face with those heavenly fries, cheeks puffed much like a squirrel hoarding nuts, when a voice speaks up at your side. 

“don’t they feed you guys at space camp?”

You choke on your food as you swallow too quickly, coughing at food bits caught in your throat. You grab for your drink and greedily gulp down your cocktail, downing what was left in the glass. You let loose a few more coughs, clear your throat, then wipe at your mouth with a napkin.

You really hate how jumpy you are. It’s so embarrassing--not to mention _frustrating_ \--how easy it is for the littlest of things to startle you.

You look to your right, ready to level a glare at whoever it was that had spoken, when you’re greeted with the sight of an all too familiar skeleton.

You groan, visibly slumping.

“yo, space cadet.” Sans waves at you with a lazy salute, your sketchbook gripped between his fingers. That ever-present, shit-eating grin is still plastered wide across his face. The urge to punch him is stronger than ever but you settle on grimacing and don’t even try to hold back as you let loose another groan. You smack your head against the bar.

He’s laughing at you and you decide that he is so totally going to get a knuckle sandwich in the very near future.

_Of_ course _he’s the one that found it_ , you think to yourself bitterly. _Why, Universe? **Why**?? What did I ever do to you??_

“Oh my god.” You breathe out, suddenly realizing something, and turn to look at him, not bothering to lift your head from the bar top.

You squint at Sans.

“‘wouldn’t be any _skin off my bones._ ’” you say, your tone sounding incredibly offended, “‘...keep an _eye socket_ out...’.” You’re practically growling. “How did I not see it?”

He’s beaming and you _hate_ it.

“heh, don’t beat yourself up over it, kid. guess some people just can’t _see through me_ as well as others can.”

You must sound like some kind of ogre with all this grumbling and growling you’re doing.

Reluctantly, you pull yourself back into a more proper seated position, ignoring the snarky skeleton in favor of waving Grillby over. As incredibly awkward as things have suddenly gotten, a promise is still a promise.

The flaming monster makes his way to the two of you, sparring Sans a glance and a nod, to which the skeleton responds with a casual, “yo, grillbz”, before focusing his attention on you.

“Could you get this _bonehead_ an order of fries?” You hear a snerk from Sans but continue to ignore him. “And could I also get another whiskey sour?” You nudge your empty glass. You had a feeling you were going to really need it.

Grillby nods and wastes no time in mixing you another cocktail before leaving to prepare the order of fries, taking your empty glass with him. Part of you doesn’t want him to leave, doesn’t want him to leave you alone with Sans but reluctantly, you squash the childish thought. You can take care of yourself.

Besides. Maybe Sans… already forgot about what happened at the laundromat?

“so. apparently you know me, but i can’t seem to say the same for you…?”

You flinch involuntarily. So much for wishful thinking.

“_____” you supply, avoiding looking at him, deciding that now is the perfect time to start on your burger. You take a bite of the sandwich, savoring the taste and marveling at the fact it is still warm. Yup. There has _definitely_ got to be magic in the food served here.

You chew slowly; totally, absolutely, positively _not_ trying to avoid talking to the monster beside you. The monster who is most definitely a stranger and who you had never met before today but whom your mind, for some unfathomable reason, assures you is someone you have known for a long, long time. You find yourself wondering if your “dreams” have anything to do with that.

“_____.” Sans repeats, testing how the name feels on his tongue (...can a skeleton even have a tongue?). Too enthralled with devouring your burger, you miss the way his expression shifts in confusion at your name. He’s not surprised that your name doesn’t spark any inkling of recollection and even though he expected as much, it doesn’t stop him from feeling frustrated.

As you set your half eaten burger on your plate, Sans speaks up once more.

“hope you don’t mind... but i took a look.”

_Someone better pick up that phone because I fuckin’_ called _it._

“Uhm. Rude.” you reply before taking a sip of your cocktail. You’re not avoiding looking at him, the grain of the wood on the bar is just really fascinating. “...but not unexpected.” You laugh lightly, dismissing any tension with a lazy wave. “I’d be surprised if you hadn’t, honestly.”

There’s an awkward pause, neither of you doing or saying anything.

“not really a lot of variety.” He says as he slides your sketchbook towards you. You turn to look at it, shoot a quick glance at Sans, then return your gaze to the little black book. 

“...yeah,” you quietly agree as you reach for it, letting your hand rest on the cover for a moment before pulling it to yourself. Your expression is hard to read and Sans isn’t quite sure how to interpret it.

Another awkward silence stretches between you two and it isn’t until Grillby returns with Sans’s fries that the silence is finally broken with a polite “Thank you, Grillby”. To which he gives you a curt nod of acknowledgment, plopping a bottle of ketchup before Sans.

You grab a fry off your plate and plop it in your mouth as the ever silent flame monster moves to tend to another customer further down the bar. You chew slowly, swallow, then speak up, eyes inspecting the various bottles of alcohol lining the shelves behind the bar.

“This might sound kind of weird…” you venture to start, “but this is actually more of a dream journal than an actual sketchbook.” You laugh, but it sounds hollow. “I swear I know how to draw more than just that one guy and can do more than just coat a piece of paper in ink.”

In your peripheral, you catch sight of Sans leaning in closer, silently urging you to continue.

You take in a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, then exhale slowly before taking another drink of your cocktail.

“Something happened when I was younger,” you continue, your hand having found its way atop your sketchbook; you thumb a corner of the cover absently. “Something… bad. Something that probably should’ve really messed me up.” You’re glaring at the bottles now, though your eyes aren’t really focused on anything. “I suppose I really would’ve been a wreck if it hadn’t been for these weird dreams I started getting.”

You don’t have to look at Sans to know he’s listening with rapt attention.

You bite at your lip and scowl, your glare intensifying. Why the heck are you being so open about this? Especially considering the way people had shunned you, had _judged_ you, whenever you talked about this--and isn’t that why it has been years since you have talked to anyone about your “dreams”?

_But it’s **Sans**._ That voice in the back of your head implores you to confide in the skeleton, tells you that you can trust him and that he’ll understand. _He’s not a stranger_ , it tells you, _you_ know _him. He won’t judge you like everyone else. He’s not like that._

You’re unnerved but continue nonetheless, that nagging, other voice in your head and the alcohol serving to chip away at the walls you had long since erected to protect yourself. Besides… it would be nice to finally talk to someone about this again, wouldn’t it? Especially with the uncomfortable turn your “dreams” have suddenly begun to take. And isn’t this what you’ve secretly been wanting ever since that fateful broadcast last month?

_Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, _____._

You lick your lips and then pick up from where you left off.

“They started out real fuzzy at first--I couldn’t really make out anything in those early ones--but as time went on, they got clearer and I started being able to make things out more. Every time I dreamt, it was as if I’d stepped into another person’s shoes. Always the same ones, too...”

You play around with a fry on your plate, twisting it back and forth between your thumb and index fingers.

“It’s really weird to admit in retrospect, but I think those dreams gave me some weird sense of stability. Something to distract myself from the pain of… well...”

You stop yourself, not willing to get into _that_ right now, whether or not you “know” Sans. He didn’t need to hear your sob story. He didn’t know you.

You straighten your back and slam your hand on your sketchbook sharply. You don’t quite catch sight of the way the skeleton jumps in his seat at the sudden action, startled.

_No more talking about depressing things!_ You hadn’t planned on things getting so heavy tonight and would really rather not go any further down that particular rabbit hole.

“Anyway!” you announce, finally turning to face the skeleton with something of a forced smile, the grin not quite meeting your eyes. “Long story short: I’ve been having weird dreams about some guy I’ve never met, who I’m not sure is real but am _pretty_ sure _is_ , for the past ten years. Sometimes the dreams get real intense and I have to put pen to paper to get the images out of my head.” You give your sketchbook an appreciative pat. “That’s where this baby comes into play. Helps me get through the weirder ones. So I really, _really_ appreciate you takin’ the time to get it back to me.”

There’s a pregnant pause and you absently wonder how many of those have already been sprinkled throughout this meeting, before shaking the thought from your mind.

“...........that so.” Sans eventually replies, rocking the bottle of ketchup in his hand in absent thought.

He’s still wearing that damn grin but it looks a bit strained, those curious pinpricks of light in his eye sockets seeming a bit dimmer than you remember. Was he actually seriously mulling over what you had said? You’re not sure what to make of it all, so elect to just shrug it off. At least he isn’t laughing at you or scoffing at your story.

“i think i get the _gravity_ of the situation.” he says after a minute, winking ( _...how???_ ) at you.

_Oh god._ You groan at the stupid pun, giving him a deadpan look. _He’s not going to let that go, is he?_

You’re about to make a snappy comeback but the words die in your throat as he brings the bottle of ketchup to his mouth, tipping it back and emptying _the entirety of its contents_ into his _mouth_.

_Did he just? ...does he …?? Where did it…………????_

“Did you just… did you _seriously_ just chug that bottle of ketchup like a bottle of booze??” You’re equal parts disgusted, amazed, and morbidly curious. How does a _skeleton_ drink anything? Where did the ketchup disappear to?

You squint at the monster, unsure what to make of this situation--of him. You decide to just settle on the thought that magic (and by extension, Sans) is _weird_.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so gross and unsettling in my entire life.”

Sans chuckles, the edges of his eye sockets crinkling ( _how does that even?? work???_ ) at your remark.

“heh. i’ll take that as a _condiment_. thanks, kid.”

You’re shaking your head at him in disbelief, eyes narrowed and lips parted. You’re not sure whether you’re offended or amused. Probably some odd mixture of the two. But mostly offended.

“I think I’m gonna need another drink.” you declare, slouching forward, suddenly feeling incredibly burnt-out. At least Sans has yet to further address the elephant in the room.

You hope you can continue dodging that subject because you honestly have absolutely _no_ idea how to even go about explaining what happened at the laundromat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos, bookmarks, and comments, everyone!   
>  They really brighten my day.
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment with any questions, suggestions, or errors you might find.
> 
>   
>  (You can also find me on tumblr at redeyedryu.tumblr.com)


	5. That Cannot Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can do this.

You unceremoniously plopped yourself face-first onto your mattress and just laid there, melding into the plush comforter. You closed your eyes and just… basked in the moment. A light, clouded fuzz swirled in your head, no doubt due to the alcohol you had consumed.

You let loose a heavy sigh, pushing air through your nostrils, and reflected on the night’s events. About how you had spilled your guts out to a practical stranger. About how easy it had been to do that, though that other voice in your mind (and the alcohol) had undoubtedly helped with that. It had consoled you, insisting that Sans was trustworthy and you had nothing to worry about. _Go on_ , it had encouraged you, _speak to him, do not be afraid of judgement. Sans will listen to you. He will not turn you away as others have done._

 You wondered about that. About what Sans had made of the things you had said--of how he had reacted. He hadn’t brushed you off--no, quite the opposite, in fact--but he also hadn’t really said anything to lay your insecurities to rest. He’d just listened, quite intently, to all that you had said. And to the whispered words’ credit, he hadn’t tried to explain away your dreams, hadn’t tried to blame it on your inability to move on or grow up.

 You rolled onto your back with a throaty grumble, eyes fluttering open. You turned your head to the side, eyeing the alarm clock perched on a nightstand.

 _11:43 PM_ it read, the white light of the digital numbers against the black backdrop vaguely reminding you of Sans’s eyes. Eye sockets …eye holes …eye _whatevers_. You tore your gaze from the little clock with a frown and locked onto the darkened ceiling of your room. Your brows furrowed as you let your mind wander back to the bar, to the light-hearted words and jokes exchanged between you and the stocky skeleton. Then to the shift the conversation had taken when he had offered a bit about himself.

Of the little Sans had spoken, the majority of it had centered around his younger brother--of how amazing and cool he is and how Papyrus is just the _best_ \--as well as little things about the surface world. He didn’t go into detail, but you got the feeling things weren’t always easy. Things had unsurprisingly been a little rough for monsters, and there was definitely a palpable tension in the air between the two races, but apparently monsters hadn’t been as lost to history as the world would have had one believe. He didn’t really dive into the meat of the matter, but the short of it was that there had been some sort of organization that had kept record of the Monster/Human war all those centuries ago. Apparently this organization had been monitoring Mt. Ebott should Monsters ever find themselves free of the barrier. Sans said they had set some kind of “procedures” to be followed to help reintegrate monsters into modern society--to ensure as smooth a transition as possible, or whatever. You had absently pondered if that had anything to do with how Grillby and a few other monsters had been able to set up shop in such a short amount of time (it had been barely over a month since they’d been released, after all).

Towards the end of the skeleton’s disclosure you got the feeling that maybe Sans was some kind of important figure in Monster society. He spoke as if he had personal, business level dealings with this organisation and, if you didn’t know any better, felt the slightest hint of distrust and veiled annoyance in the skeleton’s tone as he spoke of the group.

You hadn’t dared to interrupt Sans as he spoke to probe the subject, though, too afraid of saying the wrong thing while simultaneously awed he would even share such a sensitive topic with you. You wondered _why_ , in the back of your mind, he was telling you all this. You were a stranger he had barely even met--a strange human who had said strange, unsettling things at the weirdest of places, no less. You wondered if, perhaps, he needed this. A shoulder to lean on and just… vent, no strings attached. Someone he could just talk to without fear of judgment.

You were all too familiar with that feeling so had decided it wouldn’t hurt to indulge the skeleton. He had returned your precious sketchbook to you and had listened to your own story with earnest, after all. Listening to whatever he wanted to tell you was the least you could do for him.

It hadn’t been long after that that the two of you had decided to call it a night. You needed to get _some_ sleep before work tomorrow and Sans had mentioned something about a bedtime story (you didn’t ask him to elaborate). You had been incredibly appreciative that Sans chose not to bring up the laundromat incident, though the exclusion did make you a bit anxious--you had been _so sure_ he’d want to talk about that. Would it be too much to ask that he would just… forget about that whole thing for the rest of forever? ...probably. But if he didn’t bring it up, you sure as hell weren’t going to.

You closed your eyes and let out a breathy sigh, which quickly shifted into heavy, shuddering yawn that brought tears to your eyes.

_I should probably get to sleep…_

...But that would risk the chance of slipping into your “dream” world.

It’s weird, you think, and you’re conflicted. You’ve never felt so unsettled by the “dreams” before and it causes you to think back on this morning’s, on how uncomfortable it had made you. Why had it been so different? Felt so… _real_? Is that how they would be from now on? Did it have anything to do with the barrier breaking and why you suddenly felt as if someone was riding shotgun in your mind? What was the connection between Sans and his brother and G͟҉-̨͜ś+͘*̷̨r̶̢?

You felt like you should know the answer to that last one. Like the answer had been given to you long, long ago, but you just couldn’t place it--couldn’t pinpoint the memory.

 _Maybe I should just bite the bullet and ask Sans…_ He had seemed rather invested in your sketchbook and its purpose--you had gotten the feeling that he’d wanted to ask more but much like you, hadn’t wanted to overstep any boundaries. _But not right now,_ you think, _that’d probably be too much, too soon._ You still don’t even know each other, despite the fact that that voice in your head kept insisting otherwise.

You grumbled and rolled onto your side, an arm tucked under your head as you wrapped the other to loosely hug yourself. You closed your eyes and let yourself bask in the quiet darkness of your bedroom. You’re nervous, an anxious bubble of uncertainty churning in the pit of your gut about what all these new, sudden changes in your life will bring to the table. However, one thing is for certain: you finally have something to work with. You’re _finally_ making headway with the mystery that is G̵̶͞ɐ́҉͏§ʇ̡͝_ɹ̷̴͢ and how your “dreams” fit into all this and this is an opportunity that you simply cannot pass up. Sans knows more than he lets on, you’re sure of it, and he is currently your only hope at getting answers. You can’t afford to lose contact with the skeletal monster, as awkward as things might have been or might yet become.

You steeled yourself. You were going to do this. You were going to get your answers and solve this mystery that has been ten long years in the making.

You fumbled the hand that had been clutching at your ribs along the plush fabric of your comforter, feeling its surface for your phone. You padded before you, above you, and finally, behind you, where a dull _thunk_ sounds, your fingers finally having found purchase on the sought after device. You cracked an eye open, squinting at the brightness of the phone’s screen cutting through the darkness. The screen is quickly unlocked, text messaging pulled up, and despite the hour, you’re tapping along the on-screen keyboard, more resolved than you have been in a long, long time.

« Messages | **Sans** | Details

 **Today,** 12:06 AM

> **You:**  
>  So hey, punny guy.  
>  I still owe you 999,999 fries.

You absently wondered if Sans was even still awake after you tapped 'send'. As a minute passed, then two, then three of staring at the phone's screen, you began thinking maybe, perhaps, you should have waited until the morning. A fourth minute rolls by and you're just about ready to succumb to a defeated slumber when the phone chimes, notifying you of the received text as it appears on screen.

> **Sans:  
>  ** so ya do

You bit at your lower lip, trying to suppress an unbidden grin. The thought that you might have woken him pops to mind and you try to ignore a tiny pang of guilt.

> **You:  
>  ** Grillby’s tomorrow night?
> 
> **Sans:  
>  ** still can't say no to free food

You weren't aware you had been holding your breath until you let loose a heavy sigh of relief. This is good. This means you haven't lost your best (and only) lead. You can do this; you've got this.

> **You:**  
>  See you later, then!
> 
> **Sans:**  
>  ok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand just shy of two months later... A tiny update appears! orz
> 
> Sorry 'bout that. I hadn't intended for there to be such a huge break between this and the previous chapter but I wound up getting enthralled with my other story, as well as getting swamped with life. Things should be calming down now, though, so hopefully it won't be months between the next update! D':
> 
> If you'd like to get in touch and ask questions or whatnot, you can find me on tumblr at redeyedryu.tumblr.com


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